this time there is no looking back
by wndrw8
Summary: "His tone is rough and unfeeling and were they somewhere else, she would brush it off with a laugh. But lately she's been feeling this darkness creeping up inside of her, starting with that kid in the storage house, and it's been gradually branching throughout her." post 5x13


The group stares.

She catches them most at the crux of day and night when sunlight presses in through slats in the blinds. Clothes are peeled from freshly washed bodies, bellies satiated. The living room smells of soap and the juices that roll from animal cooked meat. This is the time when things calm and people can examine one another.

They often look to her and frown. It feels like the way their fearless leader looked at her outside of that suburban neighborhood, before he told her she couldn't be trusted around his children.

"Any word around the water cooler?" Rick asks.

They sit at the dining room table, going over a layout of the entire safe zone. She's got the weak spots in the wall marked, as well as the towers, and the houses built closest to the steel wall. But for the past ten minutes she's just been drawing circles with her pen, endless loops that splay wide across the soft white paper. "Nothing especially interesting," she admits.

"Not Maria? I thought she and Deanna are close."

Carol shakes her head. "Deanna really keeps to herself. Planning wise, that is."

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Daryl round the corner of the table. Since that night of the party, he's been spending more and more time outside the walls. He comes back, slick with grime and sweat and walker blood, and disappears again before they can ever _really_ talk. He listens to what she says but it's like he's retreated somewhere she can't reach him.

Rick is really the only one who talks to her anymore, besides Glenn sometimes. She's lost most of her people—Dale, Lori, Andrea, Hershel, Tyreese. Now their group is full of these young kids and she has no idea what her role is anymore.

"Carol?"

"Hmm?"

She glances up from the paper to see Daryl looking down at her.

If she were outside, she'd look up at him with a smile, but this is Daryl. She just stares at him and he stares back. Distance has grown between them since they got to this place. She fears one day they will look at each other and not be able to find common ground anymore.

"Was askin' if you seen the lookout?"

She blinks. Rick's gaze is on her, but not on her, really. Lately when Rick looks at her, he's just seeing through her. As an end to something of his purpose. Men like Rick irk her, but he's led the group this far and she knows that a good power play comes on the downswing. "What lookout?" she asks.

* * *

Daryl climbs out the window of his new bedroom and onto the roof beside it like a cat. His muscles tense, ripple, and he holds out a hand for her to follow. She does but with more hesitation. Her pants tighten around the swell of her ass as she bends her knee, hoisting her body out, upward. She manages to take his hand but slips on a rough shingle.

"Shit," Daryl says.

A button on her blouse pops off as she jerks forward. He grabs her arm and pulls her into the space next to him, looking alarmed. He doesn't let go until she's settled securely.

"Ain't you uncomfortable in those damn things?"

She wiggles in next to him, trying to draw the vee of her blouse together. "What damn things?"

From this vantage point, they can see over the wall, almost three hundred and sixty degrees around. The skinny pine forest to the west and the endless rows of barren farm fields to the east. If they were closer to the coast, she could probably see the water.

"Those… your clothes."

She shifts.

He looks at her, then looks away.

"What is it, Daryl?"

"I know what you're doin'," he says, "but the outfit?"

He tone is rough and unfeeling and were they somewhere else, she would brush it off with a laugh. But lately she's been feeling this darkness creeping up inside of her, starting with that kid in the storage house, and it's been gradually branching throughout her. "Is it really my outfit that's bothering you?"

Daryl shifts, and the heat of his skin lands on hers, the taut string of muscles in his arms. Their hips are side to side and she can feel his warmth. "You can't keep doin' this."

She stills. Today she feels like being combative—keep doing what? But she already knows what his answer will be.

The thing Daryl hates most is fakeness.

But this is more than fakeness. This is sacrifice. It's necessary, considering what all they've been through, and she will keep at it because that's what she knows. She will wear the ugly sweaters and smile and grin and look for all the ways she can to reinforce this group until nothing can bring it down.

There is no looking back anymore, only forward.

Though she's not exactly sure what's ahead of her anymore.

"So you've made friends," she redirects, and tries to look him in the eye but his gaze keeps moving. "Aaron and Eric?"

"They ain't my friends. But they're okay."

"And us?"

He shifts and makes a sound like an affirmative.

Good enough, she thinks.

(But it's not anymore.)

Carol runs a hand over the roof top around her, the gritty shingles scraping her palms. She skims over an errant block before feeling something round jab into her skin. Her hand halts. She lifts it to see a small acorn stuck in the crux of the misplaced shingle.

"Look at that," she says and holds it up for him to see.

Daryl hums. He looks cautious with the tension in his muscles and his eyes squinted, averted from her gaze. It kills her to see him this way. It's just them. Doesn't he know better? Doesn't he know _her_? "Keep it. Supposed to be good luck."

"Well, I sure need it."

She pockets the acorn.

Beyond the compound, a bird squawks at them from the limb of an elm tree. It's getting dark out and wisps of pink curl out along the edge of the horizon, blending into the settling night.

* * *

Now, in clean houses with running water and food readily available, it's hard to remember the days on the road after Grady. Her memories of that time come in snippets. Heat and the dry grass scraping at her boots. Maggie crying. Sasha's strict, stern gait and the way her eyes flickered across the stretch of road ahead of them.

Daryl.

He thinks, even now, that she doesn't see the healing cigarette burn on his hand.

He was stupid to think it could help. Demons like theirs can't be exorcised through physical pain.

"_You have to let yourself feel it."_

Nobody asked her how she was after Beth and Tyreese. And of course it made sense. There were others that were suffering more than her. She understood that. Saw Glenn making the rounds. Saw Rick checking in with Daryl. The group reaching out to one another.

And it's selfish to linger on it, but no one reached for her. She was just there, clawing at people as they rushed by in their own haze of guilt and grief.

* * *

They climb back inside after dusk. He holds her hand as she maneuvers through the open window but lets go almost as soon as her feet hit the carpeted floor. He turns his back, facing the small twin that's shoved up in the corner of the room.

It smells like the oil he puts on his crossbow. Like dirt and faint soap. It smells comforting and simple in a way that makes her want to cry.

"I'll talk to Rick," she says. "He might want to sneak out there sometimes."

Daryl kicks at the blankets on the floor. When he speaks, his voice is rough. "You know, I ain't cut out for this."

"For what?" She plays with the vee of her blouse again, fussing over the second button. "The lookout's good. We'll be able to see—"

"Not the damn lookout. What's with you?"

She stops and looks up from the blouse to eye him. "Nothing. I'm just trying to keep us all safe."

"We _are_ safe."

"You don't know that. You don't know these people." Her breathing hastens and she feels a pressure on her chest. It is more terrifying than anything to be so off-kilter with him like this. "You go out on one hunt with Aaron and suddenly everything's roses?"

He glances up at her and his eyes scan her length. He angles towards her, not head on, but so he can get her in his periphery. It's a tactic she's seen him use with animals before and people like Merle. "You told me to try."

"You still have to keep your guard up."

"Who says I ain't?"

"You wouldn't even take the gun, Daryl."

Her voice is harsher than she means.

Instinctively, she takes a step back from him. He's mad, too. His cheeks have gotten all red and he's glaring at her like he always used to. They stand there like that for a moment. Then he finally squares to her. "This ain't you."

That, more than anything, sets her off. She lets the sweater drop onto the window sill, then runs her hands through her hair. Her pulse is elevated. Sweat sticks to her neck. But she keeps her voice soft because this is what suits Daryl, and it's always been about what suits Daryl. "When have I not done everything I could for this group?"

His shoulders drop. He looks down at the floor and starts playing around with the loop on his belt.

Guilt floods her body almost immediately. "Daryl…"

"Nah," he says. "You're right."

He takes his vest off and hangs it on the back of the lone chair in the room. His crossbow is in the corner next to a muddied up knapsack and spare belt. He takes a box of crushed cigarettes from his pocket and sets them on the seat of the chair.

"You ain't gotta look at me like you're sorry." He runs a hand through his hair. "I just… was worried."

Carol melts. All the anger that once coursed through her body fades. She takes a step into him. Her hands go to his face, smoothing his hair back so she can see his eyes. "Don't be worried. I know what I'm doing."

She touches his chin, running her fingers along his jawline.

Daryl's face is a mesmerizing patchwork of scars and scrapes. She counts two small ones by his eyebrow and another near his ear he got from a close call back at the prison. His scars are comforting to her. He is the only person left on this earth whose body she has committed to memory.

On an instinct, Carol leans in.

His lips are warm and soft. Yet when she steps closer, he pulls away. "Carol," he says.

Oh hell.

She withdraws quickly, not looking at him. Her cheeks redden. Outside the bird squawks. She feels the sharpness of the acorn in her front pocket. "I thought… I don't know," she says, and lets loose a sound like a laugh, though it's not. "I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable." She grabs her sweater, brushing past him and going for the door.

"Hey." He grabs at her wrist but she deflects him.

"It's okay," she says. "It's fine."

But really it kills her.

She's always cared deeply for Daryl, but that moment after Terminus when they were on watch and he looked at her, really looked at her, that was the moment she knew. He sensed something was wrong and without speaking, he pulled it from her.

That's the moment when she knew she was crazy, head over heels in love with him.

* * *

Her room is on the western end of the house. She's only been in it for a few days, but already she likes being able to watch the sunset from her window. She's got a full size duvet mattress set in the middle of the floor with two blankets and a single pillow on top. There's nothing else in the room except for a lamp and nightstand where she stashes her clothes.

Slowly, Carol starts unbuttoning the starched collared shirt. It's tight on her and leaves a mark on the underside of her left arm. The pants are tight, too. She couldn't fight the undead in these clothes but that is not her purpose here.

The doorknob on her door jiggles, then opens.

"Hey."

She looks up to see Daryl standing in the sliver of space between the door and the wall. He looks kind of embarrassed to have caught her with her shirt half off. But he doesn't make a move to look away or leave.

"Come in," she says. "Shut the door behind you."

He follows her directions and leans back against the door, his gaze averted as she strips completely of the shirt and throws on a thin cotton tee that clings to her body. When she's done, she turns to look at him.

"What is it, Daryl?"

"Nothin'. I just…"

He's not wearing his shoes. It looks funny to see him here like this without his vest or his crossbow or his boots. He doesn't even have on socks. "I don't need a pity screw," she says.

He winces. "That ain't what this is."

"Then, what?"

He fidgets for a moment before popping open the buckle on his belt. This simple action from him, the sound of the metal clinking, floods heat through her body. He steps into her and it intensifies. Finally he reaches out and puts his hands on her waist. Hesitantly, his thumb traces over her hipbone. "Put your hands on me," he tells her.

Her breath catches in her throat. She hesitates, then places her hands on his neck, dipping into him. There is something delicate in his gaze. It catches her off guard and suddenly she is reminded that she has feelings, too. They're just pushed down so deep she can barely find them anymore. "I know what I want," she says. "You need to be sure, too."

His eyes flicker down to her mouth. He licks his lips. "I'm here, ain't I?"

This time when she kisses him, Carol lets him take control. Lets him decide when to open for her. It's better this way. He's less tense and after a bit he acquiesces, leaning into her. Really kissing her. His hips square to hers and press. One of his hands slips around to the small of her back, the other going to her hip, skimming over the curve of her ass.

"Are you—"

"Shh," she says, and peels his shirt off before removing her own. He's got more scars on the rest of his body, some of which she's seen before, some of which she hasn't. A few are dark, like cigarette marks or burns from working over a car engine.

Others are clearly knife marks.

She kisses them all one by one. When she's down to the waist of his jeans, she starts backing him up towards the bed, lowering him down into the tangle of sheets. There, they slow. His lips work over her neck as she fumbles with the button on his jeans and when she finally gets her hands on him, he jerks into her like she's pure fire.

"Fuck," he says.

For the first time since before the prison fell, Carol really laughs.

* * *

Daryl is an experienced lover, as much as his shyness and chagrin might suggest otherwise. Once he's over his original hesitancy, his body loses its tension. He pulls her onto his lap and sucks on her breast, his palm rubbing between her legs over the material of her pants, teasing her.

It feels like heaven.

With him, she's not thinking strategy or power plays. She's just feeling, something she's never been allowed, in this life or the last. With Ed it was all routines. Supper by a certain time, groceries, dishes, house cleaning. Sex was maintenance at best. Emotion was kept along a short, thin line.

Then the walkers started popping up and Ed died and she thought something would change. And it did, in some ways. But the group still looked at her to keep them settled. She was clean clothes and hot food and reassurance. That left no room for her own desires.

But now…

"Hey," Daryl says, forcefully. He tilts her chin up so she's looking at him. "Stay with me."

He wraps an arm around her waist and maneuvers her back on the bed. Sheets rustle. She smells laundry detergent and faint salt as the room around her spins. Faintly, she's aware of Daryl removing his jeans. Then he's working the zipper on hers and dragging the fabric down her legs. The friction on her hyper-stimulated skin is almost too much.

Finally he yanks her pants over her ankles and the acorn in her pocket goes flying onto the floor. It bounces twice, then rolls to a stop.

What luck, she thinks.

Daryl hovers over her. He puts a hand under the small of her back, tilting her hips so she's angled up towards him. Using his thumb, he works soft circles over her clit. His gaze is so intensely focused on what's happening between them that it should make her feel uncomfortable but it doesn't.

He slides one finger inside of her, withdraws. Then two.

She bucks into his hand.

"Daryl," she warns.

His gaze shifts to her face and he gives her a smirk that sends a flood of heat to her core. He pauses, his dick hard and wet against her thigh, and then he's inside of her.

The sensation robs her of breath. A plume of pressure explodes in her belly as she struggles to accommodate him, feeling a sudden unbearable fullness. She's lost to the moment as old panic resurfaces. She flashes back to pre-apocalypse and how heavy Ed always was over her. How she never could _breathe_.

Trying to calm herself, Carol twists her hips, searching for a better angle.

"You okay?"

She pants. "Just… hold on."

It's not that she doesn't want him, because she does, she just needs time. The angle is too intense. It's too much all at once. But he's Daryl and she doesn't have to say anything; when he looks at her, he automatically knows.

He pulls out and cups her neck, drawing her up so she's seated, pressed against him, and kisses her cheek softly.

"Relax," he says.

She does. He lies back on the mattress, the sheets bunching under his muscled body. He's slick with sweat as he pulls her on top so she's straddling him. Then he reaches between them and touches her again, rubbing her until she's wet and aching and there are no more thoughts of Ed in her mind. It's just her and him and the smell of the sheets, the laundry detergent and their clothes.

This time when she guides him inside her, the pressure feels explosive in another way. Like an electric current shooting through her body. She feels in control.

Eventually she starts up a rhythm and he follows her pace, splaying his palm open on her belly.

When her body starts to tremble and squeeze, she tumbles forward into him. Cries out. That's when Daryl loses his control and thrusts. She can barely breathe; all she can do is focus on his movement, the almost frantic way he grinds up into her, burying himself inside of her.

He pants, thrusts a few more times before coming.

"Shit," he says. His heart beats wildly against his ribcage.

She lies on top of him until his breathing calms, then peels herself from his body. Sweat slicks her skin. It feels good, like a reawakening. Like a part of her is being resurrected. "Dinner," she says. "Rick'll wonder where we are."

"Fuck it. Lie down for a sec."

With an exhale, Carol moves so she's lying on her side next to him. Their chests press together. Daryl drapes a hand over her waist. A bead of sweat rolls down the side of his face. He closes his eyes and exhales against her lips.

Fuck it.

Maybe that's the attitude she needs to adopt. Because it calms her to walk into these homes and be welcomed like someone without a past. Sometimes you have to put things aside. Sometimes you have to pretend. You _need_ to.

The group can look at her all they want. Carol doesn't need them to approve of her. One of the two people she needed approval from is gone and the other just tore into her soul to find her again, like he always does.

She shivers and pulls the covers up around them.

It surprises her when he nestles closer to her. She pulls him to her breast and runs a hand through his hair.

I will keep you close, she thinks. No matter the cost. No matter what anyone else has to say about it. This is what I do and have always done.


End file.
